The taverna was situated high in the hills above Selçuk. It was clearly a local place, with stucco walls and rough beams. There was the faint tang of charcoal and the scent of spicy food. The two dozen or so patrons were clustered in small groups, talking. Outside on the terrace, the view was breathtaking. There were a few tables by the railing, and Sinclair moved to sit on the same side of the table as Cordelia, so they could both enjoy the view of the valley. Evening was falling, and the light was soft. The proprietor put down complimentary glasses of raki mixed with water—a drink that looked like diluted milk. Cordelia took a sip and made a face.
“It’s an acquired taste,” said Sinclair, and tossed his off. “Try this.”
He picked up a dark olive from the dish and fed it to Cordelia. It was marinated in a spicy oil and had a dense, raisinlike texture.
Sinclair insisted she try everything. There was ezme, finely chopped pepper, onion, sun-dried tomatoes, and walnuts, eaten with sesame-topped bread. Then köfte, char-grilled spiced ground lamb.
“It’s manti,” he said when the next dish was placed in front of her. She dipped her fork in and sampled it. The combination of hot dumplings and cool yogurt was delicious. Sinclair poured her a glass of Yakut wine, a dry red that went well with the spicy food. They finished with honey-dipped baklava sprinkled with the light green gratings of pistachios. The dark sweet coffee had a rich aftertaste.
By the time they finished, night had nearly fallen on the valley. The sky was navy blue, and a few stars were starting to dance around a three-quarter moon. They sat in silence. He picked up her hand and held it, resting his arm on the table, not saying anything.
“Cordelia,” he began. “I want to be fair to you—”
“You’ve been more than fair,” she interrupted. “You have been wonderful to me. I feel guilty, getting you into this mess.”
He kept holding her hand, looking into her eyes.
“A couple of greedy people think they can take advantage of you. I am happy to help, but don’t think I’m being some big hero or anything.”
“Well, I am grateful to you nevertheless.”
He sighed. “I don’t want you to be grateful to me.”
“What do you want, John?” she asked. He didn’t answer. He kept holding her hand.
The ride back on the motorcycle in the dark was exhilarating. The night air brushed her skin, cool and invigorating. They climbed higher and higher, flying through the darkness. The headlamp of the bike painted their path in advance. He pulled into the dark courtyard, and when he cut the engine there was utter stillness.
“It’s a beautiful place,” she told him, handing over her helmet.
“I love it here,” he said.
He put the helmets on the bike and walked with her over to the edge of the terrace. The valley lay before them. Then he pulled her to him and crushed her in a deep embrace. His mouth found hers and she lifted her face and kissed him back. It was long and hungry and incredibly sweet. He ran his hand down her back and pressed her against his body. She leaned into him with her whole weight. He was strong and powerful, more muscular than she had realized. When he finished kissing her, he stepped back, breaking body contact, but he still held her hand.
“Don’t, if you don’t want to,” he said.
“John, I know exactly what I am doing,” she said, and turned and walked into the house.
Cordelia woke at dawn and looked at the light coming in the window. There were no curtains, and the sun reflected a bright pattern on the stone wall on the other side of the room. She felt the delicious ache. Her lips were slightly sore, her mouth was tender from his beard stubble. She felt good and healthy and strong. Her movement caused Sinclair to open his eyes. His legs were still tangled in hers, and he moved his heavy limbs off her.
“Good morning, Delia.” His sleepy voice was incredibly sexy.
Her heart soared. Having him here beside her, saying good morning, took her breath away. How utterly wonderful to be with him like this. She was so absorbed in the moment, she didn’t respond.
“Are you sorry?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow and squinting at her. His hair was falling into his eyes, and he looked very tan against the white sheets. The sheet dropped away as he moved, revealing his sculpted chest. In the daylight, his unshaven face showed his age; fine lines were just starting to crease his eyes.
“Absolutely not,” she answered, smiling.
“Good,” he said. He reached over with one arm, scooped her up, and pulled her on top of him.
Cordelia was sitting on the couch by the window with her legs curled up, leaning back against Sinclair’s chest. Kyrie was seated by the door, looking out into the courtyard, one ear tilted to listen to their voices. They were taking turns reading the journal aloud. The beautiful handwriting had turned sepia with age, fine and spidery, and reading was difficult. By reading aloud they could look and listen for some hidden message. As Sinclair read, Cordelia looked out the window into the sunlit morning.
MY COLLEAGUE ROBERT PEARY’S SHIP THE ROOSEVELT IS DOCKED IN THE EAST RIVER, IN FINAL PREPARATION FOR AN EXPEDITION TO THE NORTH POLE. HE IS WELL FUNDED. I YEARN FOR SUCH PATRONS BUT HAVE HAD LITTLE SUCCESS HERE IN AMERICA. HOWEVER, I REMIND MYSELF THAT THE LARGESS OF THE PRINCE OF MONACO HAS GIVEN ME MUCH, AND I HAVE ENJOYED MORE THAN A DOZEN VOYAGES BECAUSE OF HIS GENEROSITY. I WILL NOT TEMPT PROVIDENCE BY COMPLAINING, BUT THE LUXURIOUSNESS OF PEARY’S VESSEL IS ENVIABLE. ON BOARD IS EVERY POSSIBLE COMFORT, INCLUDING A TWO-HUNDRED-VOLUME LIBRARY. AS I STOOD ON THE QUAY, I NOTED HIS SLED DOGS WERE PROSTRATE ON THE DECK IN THE JULY HEAT. HE DEPARTS TOMORROW FOR LONG ISLAND SOUND AND WILL MEET WITH PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT AT HIS HOME, SAGAMORE HILL, BEFORE CONTINUING TO MORE NORTHERN REGIONS. HOW I ENVY HIM.
Sinclair handed the journal to Cordelia and she read:
NOTHING CAN DESCRIBE THE GLORY OF THE POLAR REGION, WHICH HAS CAPTURED THE IMAGINATION OF THE EMPIRE. ALTHOUGH MY VOYAGE TO SPITSBERGEN IS MONTHS AWAY, IN MY MIND I CAN SEE THE SUN REFLECTING ON THE FROSTED SILVER OF THE ICEBERGS. I PICTURE THOSE TOWERING EDIFICES, THEIR WHITE BULK A HIGH CONTRAST TO THE DEEP BLUE OF THE ARCTIC SKY, AND THE IDENTICAL HUE IN THE WATER OF ADVENT BAY BELOW. SOME ARE SUFFUSED WITH A FAINT PINK GLOW, AND OTHERS ARE COLORED IN SURPRISING RAINBOWS, FROM THE MOST INTENSE LAPIS LAZULI AND MALACHITE GREEN TO THE PALEST CELADON.
Cordelia leaned her head back against John’s shoulder.
“He really loved the Arctic.”
“He certainly wrote enough about the land disputes at that time,” said Sinclair. “He must have been very aware of the importance of hanging on to that deed. Listen to this.
THIS LAND IN SPITSBERGEN IS TRULY TERRA NULLIUS. IT HAS, UP UNTIL THIS MOMENT, BEEN A VAST WASTELAND, CLAIMED BY NONE. I FIND IT IRONIC THAT TWO AMERICAN CAPITALISTS COULD RECOGNIZE THE VALUE OF THE LAND AND GENERATE SUCH COMPETITION FOR THE ISLAND. NOW OUR LITTLE MINING OPERATION HAS BROUGHT OUT THE AVARICE OF GREAT POWERS: ENGLAND, SWEDEN, RUSSIA, AND GERMANY. NORWAY IS THE MOST AGGRESSIVE AND IS TRYING TO CLAIM OUR SMALL ENTERPRISE AS ITS OWN. BUT THERE HAS NEVER BEEN AGREEMENT AS TO WHO SHOULD EXERCISE SOVEREIGNTY OVER SPITSBERGEN. NO COUNTRY CONTROLS IT, AND WE STILL RETAIN THE DEED TO THE LAND UNTIL SOME GREATER POWER SHOULD TRY TO WREST AWAY THE FRUITS OF OUR HONEST LABOR.
“How amazing that everyone is still fighting over the same land,” said Cordelia.
They sat for a moment in silence.
“It’s possible we won’t find the deed, Cordelia,” he cautioned.
“We’ll find it,” Cordelia said, picking up the journal. “I can feel it. He loved this place too much to have let the deed be lost. I am sure he hid it.”
“Keep reading. I’ll go pick up some things for lunch,” said Sinclair. He scooped his keys out of the earthenware bowl above the sink and walked over to give her a lingering kiss. “I’ll be right back.”
Gabriel Fauré’s “Cantique de Jean Racine” filled the room with angelic choral music. She looked up after a while and surveyed the beautiful little house, suddenly
aware it would take very little to make her happy if John Sinclair was with her.
She sighed to herself, and Kyrie looked over, thumping her tail on the floor. Suddenly the dog pricked up her ears and looked hard out the door. She emitted a deep growl, scanning the courtyard.
“What’s wrong, Kyrie?” asked Cordelia. She walked to the door and looked outside. There was sunshine in the courtyard, and the sound of a gentle wind. Nothing else. The terrain dropped off precipitously after the terrace, and she could see for miles: scrub brush of the arid land, olive trees, and a few ramshackle buildings down the slope. A figure far off on the adjacent hillside looked like a local farmer. That was all.
Cordelia closed the door and pulled the dog by the collar back to the couch.
“Come on, Kyrie, we need to read this journal.” The dog snuggled up to her on the couch and put her chin on Cordelia’s knee.
Twenty feet below the terrace of John Sinclair’s house, Vlad crouched behind the stone wall. He had heard the dog growl and stopped moving. He checked his Windbreaker pocket for the gun and put his hand on it as he climbed over the three-foot wall into the courtyard. He stood up and looked into the empty courtyard. The BMW motorcycle was gone. Hanging on the hook near the door was only one helmet. Sinclair had left. The girl was still here. He didn’t see the man standing behind the stone pillar at the entrance to the courtyard.
The man had been there since sunrise, so long he looked like part of the stonework. As Vlad climbed over the wall and started toward the door, he never heard the man come up from behind. He was unconscious with the first blow. Frost caught him before he fell, and dragged him out to the road. A pickup truck pulled up, and two farmers silently lifted Vlad into the back and stretched him out on the flatbed before driving away.
No one was there to see any of it. If they had, they would have noticed that the Turkish farmers had the pale skin of Anglo-Saxons, tinged with pink sunburn after only a few days in Turkey. Frost walked back into the courtyard and looked at the twin tracks Vlad’s heels had made in the dirt as he dragged him toward the road. He scuffed the marks away, vaulted over the stone wall, and was gone.
Sinclair’s phone rang just as the woman was packing the goat cheese into the paper bag.
“Sinclair,” he answered, expecting Charles to be on the other line.
“Go back to the house now,” said Frost. “We caught somebody outside. It’s fine, we got him in time, but you need to get back there.”
Sinclair grabbed the bag from the woman at the farm stand, thanking her in Turkish, and ran toward his motorcycle. Five minutes away was too much. As he drove, he found himself wishing he had taken Malik up on that gun. When Sinclair pulled into the courtyard, Cordelia was pacing the veranda of the house. She ran out to meet him.
“What’s wrong?” His heart was pounding.
“John, I found something!”
He surveyed the courtyard. Kyrie was wagging her tail. Cordelia was grinning now. Everything was fine. He quelled his panic and forced himself to smile.
“I found a reference to the deed.” Cordelia was beside herself with excitement and grabbed his hand. “Come look.”
“Great,” he said, taking off his helmet. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
They read the journal together.
SEPTEMBER 13, 1908
GLORIOUS DAY. THE EXPEDITION TO SPITSBERGEN HAS BEEN COMPLETELY FINANCED AND OUTFITTING HAS BEGUN. ALL IS READY TO GO AS SCHEDULED. THE MAY 1909 DEPARTURE DATE FROM TROMSØ IS FIRM. BECAUSE I WILL BE ON THIS EXPEDITION FOR AT LEAST EIGHT TO TEN MONTHS, I MUST PUT THE DEED IN A SAFE PLACE. THERE HAS BEEN TOO MUCH CONTENTION OVER THE LAND, AND I DARE NOT RISK LOSING THIS DOCUMENT. I WILL BRING IT TO JSR. AS HE IS LEAVING FOR THE MIDDLE EAST, JSR MAY AGREE TO ENTRUST IT TO BRADFORD—IS AS GOOD A CHOICE AS ANY FOR SAFEKEEPING.
“What do you think?” asked Cordelia.
“It seems like his partner, James Skye Russell, would have ‘entrusted it to Bradford,’ “ said Sinclair. He put the bag of groceries down on the counter.
“I wonder who Bradford is?” said Cordelia.
“Maybe Mr. Bradford was his lawyer, or a business associate. Would your lawyer have any idea?”
“Jim might know. He’s been looking through all the family papers.”
“My cell phone is there on the writing desk. Call him. But before you do that, let’s talk lunch. How does lamb shish kebab with okra and onions and rice pilaf sound?”
“John Sinclair, are you trying to impress me?”
“No, darling, just feed you,” he said. “I’ll impress you later,” he added, and winked at her, starting toward the kitchen.
They were just finishing up lunch when Sinclair’s cell phone rang. He picked it up quickly, on alert.
“Sinclair.” He relaxed when he heard the voice. “Sure, she is right here,” he said. “Let me get her for you.” He handed the phone to Cordelia. “It’s your lawyer.”
“Hello, Jim. Yes, I am fine. I’m at John Sinclair’s house in Turkey.” She rolled her eyes at Sinclair. “Yes. Yes. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you in London. Did you find anything about someone called Bradford? Oh. That’s too bad. Well, we’ll keep reading. See you on Monday. Right, four o’clock.” She hung up the phone.
“Jim says there is no mention of Bradford anywhere.”
“Then we will just have to go see the family of James Skye Russell. Where are they?”
“England. Just outside London. But, John, I don’t want to leave here yet.”
Sinclair kissed her on the top of her head.
“I’m afraid we can’t stay. We need to go, and soon.”
Kyrie was leaning against her legs, as if she knew this was good-bye. Cordelia patted the dog as she looked outside. It was so beautiful: the view from the stone veranda overlooking the hills, the coolness of the night, the taste of the wine, crisp and delicious, and the wonderful time in bed, learning about each other, memorizing what it was like to be held, caressed, and loved. Now it was over. She looked back into the house.
Sinclair was talking on the phone with Charles Bonnard, filling him in on their schedule. The van pulled up in the courtyard and Malik rolled down the window
“Good evening, lady. Hello, sir, your flight is at seven. We should go quickly.”
London
Cordelia sat in the central dining room of Claridge’s, drinking tea and eating cucumber sandwiches. There were all kinds of pastries on the beautiful green-and-white-striped china, and Cordelia was examining them as Sinclair appeared.
“We’re all set,” Sinclair said, taking a seat and pouring himself a cup of tea. “We have a rental car and will drive out to Cliffmere tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”
Cordelia consulted her watch, dabbing her lips with a napkin.
“Quarter after three. After your tea, we’ll head out to meet Jim Gardiner at the house.”
“Where are we going?”
Cordelia looked up at Sinclair with a laugh.
“I have to check the address. Jim Gardiner says it’s nearby, but I’ve never been there.”
In the exclusive Mayfair district of London, Grosvenor Square was a luxurious green oasis with flower beds and wrought-iron benches. The park was filled with people walking their dogs, and nannies chatting as their infant charges slept in Silver Cross prams. Schoolchildren were riding bikes along the symmetrical paths. The day was balmy, and a half dozen office workers sat sunning themselves, unwilling to go back indoors.
Cordelia walked around, enchanted. Stately buildings rimmed the edge of the square. A brass plaque said Grosvenor Square was once called “Little America,” because the second American president, John Adams, lived there in 1785. She noticed the American embassy at one end of the square, enormous and modern. The Canadian embassy flanked it at the other end. All around were town houses that had been preserved from the late Georgian era, with classical pilasters and pedimented doors and windows.
A few steps from the square proper, Cor
delia found her new home, a solid testament to the affluence of Elliott Stapleton. It was a beautiful brick town house with white columns. The four-story building had a slate roof and multiple chimneys, and was silhouetted against the bright London sky.
“I can’t believe this is mine,” Cordelia said in awe as she crossed the street and walked toward it.
Sinclair looked the building up and down. “It’s a beauty.”
The door opened, and filling the doorframe was the form of Jim Gardiner.
“Delia! Welcome home,” he said with a big smile. “By God, it’s good to say that, honey.”
She flew up the steps to hug him.
Inside the town house there was a quiet elegance. The rooms were clear of clutter, and the beautiful heirloom furniture was showcased by subtle colors on the walls, opulent silk drapes, and the rich patina of parquet floors.
“I love it,” said Cordelia, looking around.
Jim Gardiner handed her a bulky envelope.
“Here are the keys. But you can’t stay here until next week. The police want you to keep clear until they finish the investigation of the break-in. We think somebody was looking for that deed.”
Cordelia took the keys and walked into the large dining room. A beautiful mahogany table was flanked by twelve Hepplewhite chairs. An antique silver bowl stood in the center of the table. Just visible through the heavy drapes was the traffic of Grosvenor Street and the park beyond.
Cordelia continued out into the foyer and started up the carved marble staircase, moving as if in a dream, quiet and thoughtful.
“I’m going to go upstairs to see the rest,” she called back.
Gardiner and Sinclair exchanged a look, as if to signal to each other not to follow. When she was out of earshot, Gardiner turned to Sinclair.
“I’m glad you are with Delia. Until we can get this mess cleared up, she really needs some looking after.”
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